A Mik Brannon Adventure: Noir
by Kyle R.S
Summary: Intrigue amid the seedy underbelly of Coruscant. Possibly the first of a series.


A Mik Brannon Adventure  
  
Noir.   
  
A Star Wars fanfiction by Kyle R. Schlichter (krschlichter@charter.net)  
  
Disclaimer: Star Wars, and all associated characters, locations, and names, are property of  
  
Lucasfilm and Lucasarts, and used here without permission.  
  
It was a cold, grey evening, the kind that seemed to dull your every sense and nerve,  
  
while it drew the callous, uncaring undertones of the city screaming into the forefront,  
  
threatening to crush you under a merciless weight of apathy. Rain poured from the sky like the  
  
tears of some long forgotten god, threatening to drown the streets of the Zephyr Block, the  
  
"Windy City" within a city, identical to a thousand others on this outwardly sterile globe.   
  
"Weather Control" was supposed to keep the big storms away from the upscale regions of  
  
Corsuscant, but the constant shuffling of hot and cold air had to be displaced to somewhere, and  
  
maybe coincidence or some sort of divine irony decided that Zephyr was prime real estate.  
  
People aren't born in Zephyr. They're forged, strengthened, and tempered by the dirt and  
  
corruption and day to day struggle to live to see another sunrise. Trust me, I speak from  
  
experience. The name's Mik Brannon, and this's been my home for as long as I can remember.   
  
My official license, from the Imperial Office of Law Enforcement, says that I'm a "freelance  
  
peacekeeping officer," a bounty hunter. I don't like to think of it that way, though. I'm not in it  
  
for the money, and it shows. Living out of the office, great view of the industrial hover port out  
  
the back window. No, it's not the money. It's the principle. People try to divide the universe up  
  
into abstracts, good and evil, light and dark, clean and dirty. But really, there are only two kinds  
  
of people out there: those you can trust, and those you can't. For a few credits a day, plus  
  
expenses, I like to think that I'm one of the ones you can trust.  
  
I reached for the bottle under my desk, and poured a glass of cheap whiskey before I got  
  
too philosophical. I stared at the pale amber liquid for a moment in the dim, flickering light of  
  
my office, before knocking it back in a quick gulp. I drug a nail out of my pocket and, as a  
  
fumbled for my lighter, the office door slid open. I silently cursed the locksmith who swore he'd  
  
fixed that little problem, forgetting about my smoke and reaching for my holster.   
  
And then she came in.  
  
As the woman entered my office, all thoughts of a fight vanished from my mind. My  
  
experience was telling me that only made her more dangerous, but at the moment, I wasn't in the  
  
mood to listen. She had the sort of figure you never see in Zephyr, outside of a ten cred  
  
holoflick. Legs that seemed to go on forever, deadly curves in all the right places, full red lips  
  
and eyes that could warm your heart or burn you to ashes, depending on her mood.   
  
"You must be Brannon," the lady practically purred, her voice a mix of amusement and  
  
slight disappointment.  
  
"Must be," I replied, unlit nail still dangling on my lip. I must have looked like a real  
  
nut, but at the moment, I was too shocked to care. My uninvited guest not so much walked as  
  
flowed towards my desk, her movements graceful and dangerously sensual.  
  
"I have a job for you," she began, that amused tone never wavering, as she slid a datapad  
  
across my desk. A picture of a balding, nervous looking man appeared on the screen. "His  
  
name is Jor Dezmann. He's a genetics researcher, and the Empire has a very strong interest in  
  
his work. Recently, he seems to have vanished. I need you to find him."  
  
"What's a lady like you, want with a guy like that?" I asked, my curiosity getting the  
  
better of me. Sometimes it's not smart to ask the wrong questions of the wrong people,  
  
especially when the Imperial government has "an interest" in things. But nobody's ever accused  
  
me of being smart. "And besides, shouldn't you put this through official channels?"   
  
The lady grinned wryly; I didn't think it was possible for her to be more alluring than  
  
when she stepped in, but I was quickly proven wrong.  
  
"All you need to know is that I'm a concerned colleague, Mr. Brannon. This matter  
  
needs to be handled discreetly, by someone who can operate under official radar. I'm told  
  
you're quite good at that." She leaned over my desk, giving me more than a small glimpse at her  
  
alabaster flesh, through the low-cut neckline of her dress. I maintained my composure as she  
  
deposited a credcard in my lap. "Five thousand," she purred, "You'll get the other half when  
  
you find Dr. Dezmann."  
  
I like to pretend that I kept my composure, that I managed not to look totally  
  
dumbfounded. I'm sure the truth was quite the opposite, though. Ten thousand, and all I had to  
  
do was find a mousey genetics researcher working for the Empire, without letting them know I  
  
was looking for him. I knew there was more going on than I was being told. I knew that I  
  
should have just told this mysterious "colleague" no, and showed her the door. I knew all this.   
  
So why did I agree to it? I was still fumbling with that question when the lady flowed back out  
  
of my office.  
  
"I'll contact you in five days. Don't disappoint me, Mr. Brannon."  
  
Five days. Swell.  
  
***  
  
There are certain places you go, and certain people you contact, if you need to find out  
  
something in a hurry on Coruscant. Windy City Droidworks Warehouse Beta is one of those  
  
places, and Gen Rahlo is one of those people. Rahlo used to be a small time cyber dealer with  
  
big time ambitions, but unlike most kids who get into the black market cyberwear business, he'd  
  
actually made something out of himself. He had a reputation among thugs and enforcers for  
  
making superior enhancements, and among the crime lords and Imperials for more subtle  
  
modifications. Over the years, his list of contacts and surveillance bugged implants had given  
  
him a proverbial ear against the door of every major politician and criminal's chambers. His  
  
major commodity, and only accepted currency these days was information, something I was  
  
sorely lacking, but I figure he did owe me a favor or two. I did, after all, save his kid sister Jez  
  
from being sold to a Hutt pleasure dome. I just hoped he could offer me more than the usual  
  
who was doing what with whom, and how often, that his more politically minded customers  
  
would want.  
  
Warehouse Beta was officially used to store hazardous waste material, toxic byproducts  
  
produced from manufacturing droid power cells. Only a handful of people knew that it had been  
  
emptied of anything like that years ago, after Rahlo had acquired it in payment for some debt  
  
owed by the plant manager. Rahlo said he wasn't sure what they did with the countless tons of  
  
radioactive chemicals, only that everything was nice and cool when he moved in. I approached  
  
the usual entrance, an employee access door on the east end of the building, and pushed a small,  
  
concealed switch with my foot.  
  
"Password," came the gruff, modulated voice from a concealed watchdroid.   
  
"Filthy nerf-herder," I muttered under my breath. The door slid open.  
  
Rahlo was in his "office," a large workbench surrounded by shelves of computers, droid  
  
parts, and God-knows-what-else. The short, plump techie's arms were buried up to the elbows  
  
in the torso of some rusted protocol droid. I coughed politely, hoping to attract his attention, but  
  
he either didn't hear or didn't acknowledge, tinkering with this or that inside the droid, humming  
  
a little tune to himself.  
  
Frustrated, I picked up the nearest object I could find - some sort of tool-attachment for  
  
an assembly droid, I think - and bashed it as hard as I could against my informant's workbench.   
  
The sound of metal ringing on metal echoed through the warehouse for some time, and Rahlo  
  
just stared at me, as though I'd committed the greatest heresy in the galaxy.  
  
"I need something."  
  
"I figured," replied the gearhead, wiping his hands on his work apron.   
  
"Looking for some scientist, name of Dezmann," I explained, handing over the datapad  
  
that his "colleague" had given me earlier. "Heard anything?"  
  
Rahlo's eyes lit up. "Heard anything? Who hasn't? Dezmann is the big name in  
  
genetics research. Working on biological enhancements that were supposed to make cyberware  
  
obsolete. He thinks that by manipulating certain key chromosomes, you can selectively–"  
  
"Right, right, skip the science lesson, Gen. Heard anything useful?"  
  
"I don't usually give freebees, Brannon. But I guess I owe you," Rahlo rubbed his  
  
chubby chin for a moment. "Last I heard, the Imperial Navy was trying to get him on board for  
  
some unspecified project, right before he vanished. Strange that, trying to negotiate a deal with a  
  
researcher, instead of just acquiring the labs and staff.  
  
The Navy. Great. I was digging myself a hole into the heart of the Imperial military, and  
  
it was getting deeper by the second. I was worried that at any moment I could lose site of that  
  
shaft of sunlight at the top, and spend the rest of my life sifting through the dirt and the darkness.  
  
If I had any sense at all, I'd drop the case immediately.  
  
But like I said before, nobody has ever accused me of being smart.  
  
"Thanks, Gen. Meet you for a drink when this is finished."  
  
"Sure, Bannon. But this time, you're buying."  
  
***  
  
At last I had a lead. Nothing earth shattering, nothing ground breaking, but it might just  
  
be enough to pick up the trail. Dezmann was working on bio-genetic enhancements, custom  
  
gene manipulation that could be performed in a few weeks on an adult organism, essentially  
  
taking the place of disfiguring or conspicuous cybernetic implants. The possibilities were  
  
theoretically limitless, and it was obvious why the Imperial Navy would want to get their hands  
  
on it. But apparently they didn't want it bad enough to cease the good doctor's assets. Or was  
  
something stopping them? Time enough to puzzle that out later. For now, I at least had an angle  
  
to attack the problem from, and nothing could stop me.  
  
"I suggest you cease your investigation, Mr. Brannon." The voice was an irritating, high  
  
pitched whine, coming from close behind me.   
  
I should really know better than to get my hopes up.  
  
I turned slowly towards the sound, this malicious voice of reason. Its source was a short,  
  
slender man on the verge of middle age, with greying hair and a face like a weasel. He had a  
  
way about him that said he was used to being in control, but also used to always having to look  
  
over his shoulder. He was flanked by a pair of heavies, one on either side, big thug types who  
  
looked like they ate pushy bounty hunters like me for breakfast. They were all dressed exactly  
  
the same, flat black suits that tried too hard to be inconspicuous, and in the end made them stand  
  
out like a group of Gungans at a Storm Trooper convention.  
  
"Maybe you didn't read the ad," I replied, casually. "I don't leave jobs half-finished."  
  
"A pity," replied The Weasel, making a vague gesture with his right hand. The heavy on  
  
that side lunged forward faster that I'd expected, and the fist he planted in my gut sent me  
  
staggering back, doubled over and trying to suck air back into lungs that screamed in protest. "I  
  
suppose we'll have to give you a lesson on what happens to nosey investigators." A foot crashed  
  
into my ribs, sending my sprawling to the pavement. Class went on like this for a long, long  
  
time.  
  
***  
  
It took two days to nurse myself back to some semblance of health. Two days with no  
  
leads, no breaks. None of the usual snitches had heard anything, or if they had, they'd been  
  
convinced to keep quiet about it. A few tidbits fell through the cracks, as they always do: A  
  
deathstick pusher had spotted some strangers on his route, the kind that had "Navy" written all  
  
over them. Well dressed, uptight, a little too obviously paranoid. The kind that don't normally  
  
find themselves in Zephyr. Bekk, a pazaak hustler who had a habit of trying to pull one con too  
  
many, had overheard one of his bosses talking about Imperial Intel hunting for a cloning expert.   
  
Or at least he thought. He said he tried not to pay too much attention to the bosses' business.  
  
None of it made sense. I was sure the men whose fists I'd run into at Rahlo's were Navy,  
  
now. Too overt, too ham fisted for Intel. But what about the woman? Who could say. I needed  
  
to get my head together, and sitting alone in my office wasn't going to get that done. I pulled  
  
my coat tight around me against the cold and the rain, and hit the streets.  
  
I knew the moment I stepped into Rex's Bar that it was exactly what I needed. The  
  
garish neon lights, air choked with tobbak smoke and drunken conversation. The entire district,  
  
the entire planet was here. Off duty troopers mixed with swoopers and pushers, hookers, pimps  
  
and cops all looking for a way to dull the omnipresent gloom and stifling bureaucracy that  
  
thought it made Corsuscant go. But I knew better. It was people like these that were really  
  
running the show. In a world that feeds on corruption, the seedy underside of society is like  
  
blood in its veins.  
  
As I slumped into a seat at the bar, though, my mind was on more personal screwups.  
  
Two days gone, three left until the mysterious woman said she would contact me, and so far I  
  
hadn't found anything that she probably didn't know already. In the back of my mind, the  
  
nagging paranoia that becomes second nature when you live in a place like Zephyr was telling  
  
me that the lady was involved in this, deep, right up to her pretty, smoldering eyes. That was  
  
about the only thing I was certain of in this case. She was with the Empire, and if the guys on  
  
my tail were Navy, she was probably Intel. Not that it made a difference, at this point. I fished a  
  
couple of cred chits out of my pocket, and waved the bar-droid over. "Something strong," I  
  
muttered, letting the coins clatter onto the bar like a handful of broken dreams.   
  
I spent an hour or so sitting there, stewing in my thoughts and nursing exotic drinks that I  
  
couldn't name and almost certainly couldn't afford. A dense cloud of tobbak smoke hung  
  
around my head, as I burned through nails at a rate that would give a medical droid a seizure. I  
  
was down to the last of the pack, about to bum another off a Rodian to my left, hoping the  
  
constant stream of nicotine would stimulate my brain into more productive thoughts, when the  
  
drunk a few seats to my right started getting louder.  
  
"Hunnerd creds a day," he slurred, "Jus' t' stand aroun' lookin' mean, 'n' scare off th'  
  
pushers 'n' pimps 'n' shit." His boss had clearly hired him for his brawn, not his brain. The  
  
bum wouldn't last long in the business, if he didn't learn to keep his mouth shut. "Ya should see  
  
what they got in there," he continued. "All sorts a' crazy machines, 'n' some old guy, think they  
  
said he was makin' clones 'r somethin'." Now he had my undivided attention. Cloning  
  
experiments in Zephyr? It was a hell of a coincidence. Once, on a trip to Tattooine, I met an old  
  
man who told me that the universe was held together by some enigmatic "force" that guides  
  
people to their destinies. Crazy old hermit. In my business, you learn to make your own  
  
destiny. You have to be smart, and you have to be good. A little luck never hurt, though, and  
  
the last few days mine had been turning around so fast I thought I was stuck on some demented  
  
roulette wheel. Right now, things had started to turn my way, but as I listened to the drunk  
  
babble on to his friend, I couldn't help but think that sooner or later, I'd come up double-zero.  
  
The drunk went on for hours, mostly bragging and boasting. All the while, my bar tab,  
  
like his stories, was getting bigger and bigger. At about the sixty credit mark, my mark rose  
  
uncertainly and staggered towards the door. I decided to make my move. Taking my second  
  
Tattooine Sunrise in my hand and swaying uncertainly, I barged right into the talkative thug,  
  
spilling my drink down his chest. If you're in this business long enough, you learn a few things.   
  
One of those is how to get your hands places that people never notice, in the middle of a lot of  
  
shoves and curses. By the time the dampened thug had stumbled into the street, I'd managed to  
  
lift what I'd hoped would be the big break. A crumpled wad of paper had been carelessly stuffed  
  
into his pants pocket. I tried to hide my delight when I read the unfolded note. An address, not  
  
far from Rex's either, in the old storage district near the transport hub. It was almost too good to  
  
be true.  
  
***  
  
It took longer than I'd hoped to find the thug's little hideaway, the break which I hoped  
  
would split the case wide open. I'd had the autotaxi drop me off a few blocks away, and made  
  
the rest of the trip on foot, through the labyrinth of back alleys and dark streets. When I finally  
  
arrived at the address, a long abandoned warehouse for Kuate Drives, my luck was still running  
  
strong. It seemed that my unwitting accomplis had turned up for work despite his state, and had  
  
passed out at his post, slumped against a pile of refuse near a window around back. A peek  
  
through the dusty glass showed little; the view was obscured by piles of crates and barrels and  
  
who knows what else. It made Rahlo's shop look clean and tidy in comparison. So much the  
  
better, I thought.  
  
I slipped a vibropick out from behind my belt, and carefully probed the window's lock  
  
until I heard it disengage, then cautiously slid the window open and slipped inside. I stayed low,  
  
palming my blaster as I picked my way through the haphazard maze of garbage and storage  
  
practically on my hands and knees. I could see a bright light in the middle of the room, and  
  
heard a familiar, irritating whine.  
  
"How much longer?" the Weasel demanded, glaring at an albino in a drab blue laboratory  
  
jumpsuit.  
  
"Impossible to say, Commodore," the white-skinned man replied. "A procedure like this  
  
has never been attempted before, not on this sort of rushed timetable. Using too much power  
  
could kill him."  
  
As the Weasel continued to fume and rave, I crept closer to get a better look at the "him"  
  
in question. I've seen a lot of things in my business, and not much of it's been pleasant, but  
  
nothing quite prepared me for this. In the middle of the warehouse, strapped to a chair beneath a  
  
sterile, plastine surgical tent, was Dr. Jor Dezmann, world renowned geneticist and, it appeared,  
  
everybody's favorite missing person. The doctor's eyes were glazed and vacant, staring ahead in  
  
a permanent expression of mixed horror and euphoria. The top of his skull had been completely  
  
removed, exposing his pale grey brain. Countless probes, leads, and wires had been inserted into  
  
the soft flesh, all connected to a plethora of machines whose functions I couldn't even begin to  
  
guess.  
  
Standing near the edge of this grisly scene were the two heavies who seemed to have  
  
taken a liking for tap dancing on my rib cage, along with two others that I didn't recognize. The  
  
two nearest me were carrying a blast-repeater and a flechette gun. I couldn't account for the  
  
others, but I could assume they were similarly armed. This is it, I thought. No turning back  
  
now. I crept deeper into the shadow to plan my attack. Power had been cut to the warehouse  
  
long ago, and it looked like the Imperials' lights and computers were being run off a single  
  
generator tucked away behind the doctor's tent. But, since I had no way of knowing what those  
  
computers were doing, there was a good chance that killing the power could kill Dezmann as  
  
well. I tightened my grip on the blaster; maybe I could just take out the lights, and still avoid  
  
being cooked like a turkey. I got ready to make my move.  
  
Then the Troopers showed up. The main door of the warehouse was blown off its  
  
hinges, and a stream of stomping boots and sterile white plastic rushed in, black shoulder  
  
paldrons showing off some red symbol I didn't recognize. I decided I didn't care to stick around  
  
and find out what it stood for, and made off through the window where I'd entered. Another  
  
squad of Troopers was waiting outside, hoping to catch anyone trying to make a break for it.   
  
Fortunately for me, it was dark, and they were a little too slow on the uptake. The Empire might  
  
think it's a good idea to send men out in pure white body armor for a night mission, but most  
  
everyone else knew better. The dim streets, lightless alleys, and my own dark overcoat were on  
  
my side, and I'd disappeared down any number of shadowy passages while the patrol still  
  
searched the main strip. I'd run a good four or five blocks, when I ran into an old friend.  
  
Leaning up against the wall of a rundown bar full of rundown women and desperate men,  
  
was a short, slender man, gasping for the air that his lungs screamed for, sweat pouring down  
  
like filthy waterfalls from his face and neck. His thin, greying hair lay in a wet tangle atop his  
  
head, and he constantly glanced about, as though checking for signs of pursuit.  
  
"Weasel," I said, loud enough to get his attention. A sharklike grin spread across my lips  
  
as I cracked my knuckles. "About that lesson. I'm a real slow learner."  
  
***  
  
Time passed. I never did get the rest of the promised payment, and I never did see  
  
Dezmann's "colleague" again. Not that I had expected to. After the Troopers ushered the  
  
catatonic doctor off to God Knows Where that night, I figured she'd gotten everything she  
  
wanted from me. I turned on the news, hoping for a distraction. Maybe the damn war was over.   
  
Maybe the Rebels had been crushed under the heel of the mighty Imperial Navy, like the  
  
Admirals and Generals had been saying all along. Or maybe the Emperor had been assassinated  
  
while I was busy getting drunk. Maybe something had changed, but I wasn't expecting it.  
  
I certainly wasn't expecting to see her, right there, in living color on the telecron. The  
  
caption on screen identified her as "Baroness Lara Vizend," and she was going on about some  
  
important medical breakthrough, something that would give the Empire the edge in the civil war,  
  
and that soon peace and order would return to the Galaxy. But it didn't matter to me. I had five  
  
thousand in my bank account, and that would cover my tab at Rex's and keep the creditors off  
  
my back until the next job came along. I pulled the last nail from the carton in my pocket, and  
  
reached under my desk for the cheap whiskey I keep around. A thin pool of amber liquid  
  
splashed around at the bottom of the bottle.  
  
Just enough for a victory celebration.  
  
Fin. 


End file.
